


why pamper life's complexities?

by onetrueobligation



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 23:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21418645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetrueobligation/pseuds/onetrueobligation
Summary: the wheel of his bicycle has punctured.
Relationships: Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	why pamper life's complexities?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hejustlikeshoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hejustlikeshoney/gifts).

> this is for aislinn, not because i think she'd enjoy it, but because it reads like something she'd write (and she'd do a much better job of it). ace, please don't actually read this disaster, and if you do, please know i'm very sorry for taking one of your favourite things and vandalising it for my own selfish purposes.
> 
> i'd say this fic is set around the mid-1920s. i made some leaps when it comes to the original source material to try and make it read better as a story but for the most part this is just some self-indulgent ideas thrown together in my most artistic way. also, apologies for being away from this fandom for so long! i swear comet/w&p still holds as special a place in my heart as ever!

The wheel of his bicycle has punctured.

Even worse, he’s fallen _off _his bicycle and is now covered in dirt.

Fedya curses himself and glances around as he gets to his feet, dusting himself off. If he weren’t in such a bad mood, perhaps he’d admire the scenery – from the battered trail atop the hill, he can see far and wide, across stretching, yellow fields of sunflowers and dandelions, down to the cottages scattered across the landscape. What he can’t see is a way to get home, he thinks bitterly. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours, and he’s no doubt that there’s no one nearby for miles.

The distant hum of a motor makes him rethink.

The sound grows louder, and Fedya can make out a motorcar headed his way down the trail – something sleek and black and flashy. Something that no one from Fedya’s neighbourhood would be able to afford in a lifetime.

The car draws ever closer, noisy and fast, and Fedya pulls his shabby bicycle out of its way, less from a desire to keep it safe and more to hide it out of shame. But the motorcar is slowing, and by the time it’s reached Fedya, it’s come to a stop.

Now Fedya can get a clear look at its driver. He’s a young man, handsome, with fair skin, plush lips, windswept golden hair and the most striking blue eyes Fedya has ever seen in his life. He’s smiling, Fedya realises distantly, breath catching in his throat. Somehow, he can’t think of a thing to say at all.

_You look lost,_ the driver says, in a voice that sounds like honey and makes Fedya’s hair stand on end. _Fancy a ride? I’ll take you where you’re going._

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Miraculously, Fedya finds his voice_. I—I wouldn’t want to ruin your charming car,_ he croaks, eyeing the clean, smooth leather of the passenger seat and uncomfortably aware of his grubby appearance.

_Nonsense,_ the driver says with a cheerful wave of his hand. _There’s a bicycle carrier on the back._

Fedya shouldn’t agree. It would be ridiculous to agree. He doesn’t know this young man, and he’d only be getting himself into trouble.

As though possessed, Fedya finds himself setting his bicycle on the rack and taking his place in the passenger seat.

Whatever demon that’s possessed him begins making conversation with this handsome young man, telling him his name, where he’s going, what he’s doing here in the countryside. His name is Anatole, Fedya learns, and repeats the name mentally in a wild, frenzied mantra. This isn’t Fedya. This isn’t who he is. He’s a nobody from a poor family struggling to pay the rent. He doesn’t go driving around in fast cars with charming, handsome men.

And yet he’s enjoying himself immensely. It feels good, to forget his standing for a little while.

It’s only when Anatole mentions a party when Fedya reawakens to just how small and insignificant he is.

_You ought to come. You’re more interesting than all the people I’ve met, Fedya. It’ll be dreadfully boring without you._

Fedya feels the colour rising to his cheeks. He’s only known this man for less than an hour, and yet he’s talking like that _means _something.

_I—I wouldn’t have anything decent to wear,_ he mumbles, almost too quietly to hear over the roar of the motor.

Anatole glances over at him with a curious expression, those blue eyes boring into Fedya’s soul, and he wants to tell him to watch the road, but he can’t summon up any sound at all.

_That’s a shame,_ Anatole says finally, turning his attention back to the road. _A young man as handsome as you are – it shouldn’t matter what you’re wearing. I know it certainly wouldn’t to me._

Fedya thinks he might burst into flames or melt into a puddle or do something equally as humiliating if Anatole keeps up this flattery.

He’ll soon have someone else to provide for, he knows. There’s a ring on his finger that’s a stark reminder of that. He can’t waste time on frivolous things like driving around with pretty boys in flashy cars, or going to parties he knows he doesn’t belong at.

And yet when Anatole talks in that sweet, honeyed voice of his, eyeing the ring and talking of marriage with him, of what it deprives a young man of, Fedya can’t help but listen. By the time they’re approaching Fedya’s apartment, he’s doubting this new life he’s headed for more than ever, and instead considers a different path – one like Anatole’s, hedonistic and thrill-seeking. 

_I will go to your party, _he says, surprising himself. There’s something unusual about the slow, pleased grin that makes its way onto Anatole’s face. It feels dangerous, somehow, but it leaves Fedya aching for something more.

_Then I’ll see you there. You and I will have the time of our lives._

God. He knows so much about these things.

**Author's Note:**

> in case you didn't already guess from the fact that i was not very subtle about it, this whole rambling is based on 'this charming man' by the smiths. i hope i did it a fraction of justice.


End file.
